Still Mary
by Songcatcher's
Summary: Set during the 1950s at Downton Abbey.
1. Prologue

_**Prologue**_

 _Downton Abbey, 1954_

A woman alone with her memories.

A boy alone in his fears.

A summer that brought them together.


	2. Mary

_**1.**_

For eleven years she dreamed of fire. Trees ignited as she passed them; oceans burned. Smoke clouding her mind as the flames embraced her in a dangerous tango, she bolted awake. "James," she uttered, brushing the loose hair from her face. Mary could hardly believe it had been nearly six years since she had last seen her grandson. The time apart suited her fine and she dreaded the thought of him staying for the summer. She was one of those people possessed by a desire to have the world just so. The relationship between her and her grandson was not always distant. In the early years, Mary was fond of the boy - a round and bubbly babe. James reminded Mary of her own son George at that age. However, a year after James was born; the Crawley family received an official letter informing them of George's death. She knew she should be proud - George died with honour fighting for King and Country, but Mary couldn't look at James the same - She couldn't look at anyone the same.

After dressing and making herself presentable she returned to the desk in her bedroom studying the baubles that lay before her, each object bringing with it a distant memory. She turned her attention to the Wireless Telegraph Apparatus. It was as cold as it was silent. With a sigh, she pulled out a booklet filled to the brim with loose papers. Brushing the leather binding carefully she flipped to the next available page and continued writing her two-day tempest of compositions, causing her to miss breakfast and lunch. With a graceful sweep of her hand she dismissed anyone who presented themselves, - whether it a maid offering tea or some other distraction. When her thoughts were transcribed on paper, she had nothing to do but contemplate her finished draft and wait for the appearance of her grandson.


	3. James

_**2.**_

James leaned his head against his hand and watched the summer hills roll by. The S shaped road was protected by leafy trees. It was picturesque. The car smelled like an old lady and the chauffeur was far too friendly. His pleasantness made James feel as though he was being pitied. James never wanted anyone's pity.

As he watched a bird fly in the distance he recalled the stories his cousin told him about Mad Granny Mary. She claimed that Mary was a witch and that she witnessed her eat a cat. He knew his cousin was known for telling stories, but the thought of his grandmother frightened him. He hated that he had to spend his summer holiday with her.

"Is everything to your liking, Sir?" the chauffeur asked. James let out a sigh and ignored his question. He tried to remember a time when he and his gran got along. Not a single memory came to mind when she wasn't cold and distant toward him. As far as he was concerned, Mary was a witch.


	4. The Return

_**3.**_

A clock chimed signaling the time. "Half-past-four," Mary said letting out a disappointed sigh. Punctuality was very important to her. She peered up at Downton Abbey. She thought that however magnificent the old castle was, however beautifully it commanded the parkland, the walls could not have been as grand as in spring 1920. She was about to go back inside when she heard a car in the distance. Her back stiffened. She knew that in the back seat sat her grandson. A breath of wind brushed against her, as if sending a gentle reminder for Mary to breathe. The sensation helped to pull her out of her memories.

The first sight of her grandson in six years was a dreary one. His forehead was pressed against the window clearly asleep. The car came to a halt beside her followed by a trail of dust. James woke with a start. A flutter of thick brown lashes greeted Mary through the window. Before she unlatched the car door sunlight spread across her hands and face. She always loved the feeling of warm light against her skin. Mary couldn't refute the fact that Downton was blessed with another beautiful summer. Despite her surroundings she couldn't shake off the bitter feeling that today was the beginning of change.

James stepped out of the car a taller and stronger lad than she had remembered. She forgot how time transformed people so quickly and wondered if he was thinking the same about her. James would have been a handsome boy if there wasn't a constant scowl across his face. A glare no boy at twelve should have the burden to carry. His hair was the same sandy blonde as his mother's, and his skin freckled. Mary liked freckles; she felt they were a person's own individual Morse code. But what stuck her the most were his eyes. They were the colour of glass - the same clear blue that her late husband Matthew, passed to their son, and their son to James. She could not see any resemblance of herself.

After exchanging cordial greetings Mary led her grandson inside. Passing through Downton's studded wooden doors felt as though they were stepping into a time vault - Mary swept up in memories and James captured in a wonderland, - both lost in a world of their own.


	5. Barricades

_**4.**_

Partially because of his youth and the glory of the day, partly because of his blossoming need for adventure, James Crawley half ran along the path that went by the pond, by the old diving poll with its mossy brick wall, before curving away through the oak woods. The accumulated inactivity at school also hurried him along. Since coming back to Downton his life had stood still and a hot day like this made him impatient, almost desperate.

The cool high shade of the woods was a relief, the sculpted intricacies of the tree trunks enchanting. Once through the wooden kissing gate, and past the rhododendrons, he crossed the open parkland and came to a halt. A statue of his father stood out of the ground, covered in ivy and looking abandoned and forgotten. He clenched his fist and closed his eyes tightly. A wave of emotion he did not recognize seeped through his veins. His world was spinning before him. There was a blinding flash of white and the sound of bird's wings flapping. Then suddenly the world went black.

James woke up to someone in the distance calling his name. The voice was soft and sounded familiar. He felt a hand upon his arm. His eyes opened, then closed and for an instant he thought he saw an angel, but came to the conclusion that he must have been dreaming. A sense of reality flooded through him for a moment. Regaining sense of the world he realized who was hovering over him. It was no angel. It was Mad Granny Mary.

Mary's precise eyes focused hard on his. It unnerved him and the fear helped propel himself away from her and he took off. How long had he been in darkness, he wondered. She called for him to come back, but he didn't. Even the sting from crashing through the wooden fence didn't stop him from running.

His side started to throb when he finally reached the manor. As he entered the house he clung to his side. He staggered up the grand stairs desperate for a place to hide. The last thing James wanted to do was run into a servant or worse, be caught by Mary. Once at the top of the stairs he turned the opposite direction from the wing where his room was located, passing several Crawley family portraits.

This part of the house had never been explored by James before. As he looked at Downton's history of Lords and Ladies, the caretakers and his ancestors he couldn't help but be wowed. The oils were impressive in both style and disposition, each canvas capturing its occupant stationary in time.

He recognized his father's twinkling blue eyes and light blonde hair right away. James liked the smirk his father wore in the portrait. How he longed to have had known him. He dreamed about those nights in the woods asleep beneath a blanket of stars while being cooed to sleep by nature's lullaby. Or perhaps as he studied, - it would have been nice to of had his father's steady hand to help guide his way. James pondered about what the sound of his father's voice might be when he told him he was proud of him. He desperately wanted to be like his father, but knew he never would. A deep ache settled in his chest and he looked away.

Next to his father's portrait was another man. The hair and eyes matched his father's, but the name plaque read, _Matthew Crawley_. His grandfather's face was so similar to his father's that it was hard to tell the two apart. Matthew was a handsome young man, his eyes were less mischievous than his son's, but they had a softness to them that could not be over looked.

Beside Matthew's painting was a portrait of a tastefully dressed woman. James was taken aback by her beauty. The long line of her neck harmonized the elegance that was her. Her foxlike eyes framed by perfectly arched brows and thick black lashes were dramatic against the flawless alabaster backdrop that was her skin.

How ironic time and change was, James thought. Time changes everything all the time, which makes time and change a constant. Despite the affect of time, James could still see the grand lady from the portrait in the woman he saw today. Recollecting the stories his mother told him about his grandmother in her youth he could understand why she was sought after.

Servants' voices down the hall interrupted James' thoughts. He ran past several doors and then the hallway took a left where he reached a dead end. He felt trapped. James tried jiggling the handle of the two doors closest and he discovered that they were both locked. Two doors left. He noticed a stuffed monkey beside one of the doors. It wore a collar of rope around its neck. He decided to try the other door instead - locked.

"Dammit!" James uttered under his breath. There was only one option left. Franticly he fumbled with the doorknob and to his relief it turned. As James opened the door the stuffed monkey slithered up the wall hanging from its noose. He slid inside the dark room vanishing with a sense of separation from his pursuers.


	6. Crossing Signals

**_5._**

It was nearly evening, high-altitude clouds in the western sky formed a thin yellow wash which became richer over the hour, and then thickened until a filtered orange glow hung above the giant crests of Downton's trees; the leaves became a nutty brown, the branches glimpsed among the foliage oily black, and the desiccated grasses took on the colours of the sky. An artist might have imagined a landscape this way, especially once the sky and ground took on a reddish bloom and the swollen trunks of elderly oaks became so black they began to look blue. Though the sun was weakening as it dropped, the tempter seemed to rise because the breeze that had brought faint relief all day had faded, and now the air was still and heavy. The scene was visible to Mary Crawley through her bedroom window. She was starting to get worried about the boy. She hadn't seen James since their last meeting earlier that day. He was bound to be hungry. She was slipping on her forest green jacket about to arrange a search party when her wireless sparked to life. _Dah-dah-dit._

Mary was quiet and stared at her hands, lost in a sea of confusion, unable to tread water, drowning… Was it reality or imagination? That was a question that she had no answer. Again, _dah-dah-dah-dit._ It was as if oxygen flooded the room and into her lungs. She knew what she previously heard was genuine. No longer trapped she slowly moved her limbs. One agonizing step at a time she walked toward her door, inadvertently knocking over a pile of books. _War and Peace, Jane Eyre, Northanger Abbey,_ accompanied by garden and flower books spilled to the floor, but she didn't notice. Her hand reached for the doorknob, it felt as if it were a block of ice and sent a quiver down her spine. The shock didn't keep her at bay; her limbs knew where to go. The walk was excruciating and the rhythm of her heels synchronized to her heart, her own personal metronome.

She had reached her destination. It felt as if she had walked for miles even though it was only the room across the hall. She looked at the stuffed monkey's everlasting smile. Clammy and nauseous she pushed open the door. Sitting behind the desk and tapping the key to the wireless with his back turned sat George. Impossible, Mary thought. She quietly closed the door behind her. Mary's heart fumbled inside her chest and her eyes adjusted to the light. What she saw was true and yet she couldn't believe it; she took several steps closer to the figure and reached her shaking long fingers for the boy. She had to feel him, to make sure that what she was seeing was real.

"Georgie?" she asked, tears stinging her eyes.

James leapt out of the chair. His frightened face met Mary's. Her dark brown eyes looked like two large bowls of ink. He couldn't look away. Grief and emptiness was all James could see in his grandmother's face. She stood there frozen - lost in a mist of some far off reality. He wasn't sure what to do, he felt trapped. Panting, he backed himself against the wall, his heart beating loudly. He could hear each thump in his ears. Mary didn't move toward him. She didn't even speak. Before he knew what he was doing he bolted from her and ran to his own bedroom.

Mary felt the gust of air blow past her as her grandson fled the scene. She stood trying to collect her thoughts, body shaking and heart in pieces. Taking a moment to compose herself she wiped away the fallen tears, walked to the door, turned off the light, and shut the door to George's room behind her.


	7. An Understanding

_**6.**_

Several days had passed since their meeting in George's old room and James' mother was scheduled to arrive. Mary found herself in the garden and bent over to pick a red bloom, fully opened, and pricked her finger on a vicious thorn. Big pearls of blood pulsed from the tip of her thumb and she automatically thought, "Bad luck." She quickly wrapped her hand in the corner of her handkerchief and dismissed the pain. Then she cautiously clipped the rose that had wounded her. Looking toward the horizon, she watched the tree leaves dance in the breeze. The morning could not have been more beautiful, but the feeling of uneasiness nagged at her.

James joined her in the garden. It seemed he was restless as well.

"Good morning," Mary said, "did you sleep well?"  
James could hardly believe his ears. He had been avoiding his grandmother for days in fear of her anger. But she was soft and sounded sincere.

He answered with a mumbled, "Morning..."

He saw that Mary was wearing a crisp white button down blouse and tan trousers. Her hair was pulled back into a relaxed bun. There was a tinge of pink in her cheeks from the brisk morning air. Nature settings and gardens were becoming to her, he thought. James bent over to smell a pink rose. The rose was in its final stage of bloom and stood out proudly amongst its younger siblings. Its petals had minor blemishes and creases but he thought it was all the more beautiful for them. How he loved plants and flowers. The boys at his school taunted him whenever he expressed his fondness for them. He caught his grandmother studying him.

She spoke gently, "The definition of a pink rose is, _grace._ "

His cheeks warmed and he was certain they were blooming to the colour of the rose Mary held in her hand.

"Does your rose mean anything?" he asked.

Mary was about to answer, but she was interrupted by the sound of two car doors being shut.

A thin petite woman walked across the grass and into the garden. It was James' mother, Sarah. Her cat eye spectacles reflected the morning sunlight. Mary liked the woman her son chose to wed. She was a most copious erudite person, charming in both continuants and spirit. The heels of Sarah's shoes sank into the soft earth with each step. Despite her difficulties a wide inviting smile spread across her face.

"Jimmie!" she exclaimed.

James made no effort to approach her. Sarah wrapped her arms around him, ignoring his distaste.

"I've missed you so much," she said and after a long time she let go of him.

Her eyes met Mary's. "Mary, how good to see you!"

Mary was embraced in a tight hug. A gesture she tried to avoid at all costs, but Sarah had a way of catching her off guard. Stumbling over words, Mary peeled herself away from her daughter-in-law. After regaining composure she was about to ask Sarah how she was, but she was facing her back. A tall man was standing by the car and Sarah waved to him. The man gave a wide smile and returned the gesture. Mary looked at James, his foot pawed at the ground shuffling pebbles, moping.

"Jimmie, Alan and I have taken a day off from work and we prepared a picnic lunch for the three of us," Sarah proclaimed proudly. "We were thinking we would spend the day together as a family. Doesn't that sound fun?"

James continued to fiddle with the rocks at his feet, murmuring his answer passively.

Mary watched closely taking in the exchange between the mother and son.

Sarah tried again, "Or we could do something you would like to do, how does that sound, sweetheart?"

James didn't even bother mumbling this time. He simply looked away.

Mary interrupted the silence, "I've given James a task today. He's going to fix the fence that was broken a few days ago."

James looked at Mary with surprise in his eyes. Why didn't she tell his Mum that he was what broke the fence? And why was she giving him an excuse, he questioned.

"Yeah, I need to fix the fence today," he told his mother.

Sarah gave James a dishearten smile. "I'll see you at supper... Ok, honey?"

Sadness and disappointment intertwined in her every syllable. Then she looked at Mary and gave her a tender smile. The scent of sweet alyssum trailed behind her as she walked back to the car. Sweet alyssum suited Sarah well for its definition is, _worth beyond beauty_ , Mary thought.

As they drove off Mary turned her attention to James. "You'd better get working on that fence."

He replied, "What makes you think I'm going to fix your stupid fence anyway?" His tone was snide and snarky.

"I'll smack you, if you speak to me, ever, like you just spoke to your mother," Mary stated calmly.

"She doesn't give a shit about me." James responded hostilely.

 _Slap._

James' hair brushed the side of his face where her hand had struck his cheek and he felt a slight sting. He couldn't believe what had happened. How dare she, he thought.

Mary's grand figure took a step toward James making him take a step back. She towered over him. "So, what do you say?"

James couldn't help but feel small and exposed next to such an impressive person.

"I'm sorry," he said.

There was no trace of anger in Mary's voice or demeanor. She nodded excepting the apology and began to walk away.

With her back turned he rubbed his cheek. "I should have hit her back, miserable old witch," he grumbled.

"What?" Mary turned around wearing an expression she herself had witnessed her grandmother, Violet wear many times.

"Don't mumble," she instructed. Her eyes were stern and steady.

"I'll go see if I can find someone to help me find the supplies," he replied halfheartedly.

"Speak up!" Mary commanded.

"I'm going to go fix the fence." James said clearly.


	8. Sarah

_**7.**_

As Downton Abbey disappeared in the background Sarah's heart and spirit sank. Alan drove intently, both hands gripping the top of the steering-wheel, peering forward. The car was intoxicatingly warm and filled the air with the smell of leather. Sarah sat with her hands clasped, a tightness building inside her chest.

"How did it go talking to James?" Alan asked. "From what I could see it didn't look like it went well."

"No, it didn't go as well as I had hoped," she said followed by a disappointed sigh.

"Cheer up dearest, James will come around eventually." He gave her a quick smile and took her hand firmly in one of his. She felt dizzy from the closeness.

It had been eleven years since her late husband had died. George had been one of the brave men who fell during the Allied invasion of Sicily. To love another man as deeply as Sarah had loved George surprised her. Alan was a good man. He was a sensitive soul, even though his exterior seemed unflappable and rather remote. Alan was one of the few people who appreciated Sarah – respectfully, thoughtfully and fully – for Sarah. She knew his quiet persona hid a deep intellectual inner self. War had changed Alan, like it does all men. Sarah admired how he managed to deal with the emotional trauma of war with such an admirable, mature and applause-worthy fashion. He was the ultimate combination of feeling and logic. In Sarah's eyes he could do no wrong.

She felt guilty about sending James to his grandmother's but it was important that Alan and she spent time alone to settle matters before they married.

Sarah opened her window and let the warm summer air burst in. The canopy of green that engulfed them felt confining and it comforted her. Sarah squeezed Alan's hand.

"I love you," she said, as they emerged from the grove of trees.


	9. Mozart

_**8.**_

It was half-past-two when Mary returned to check on James. He was sitting on the newly finished fence looking up toward the sky. The planks were level and the nails even. She was surprised by his quality of work.

"A Job worth doing is worth doing right," she said.

They picked up the leftover material and started to walk up the path. A light wind greeted them and brushed Mary's silver hair away from her face. James jogged past her and then turned around.

"I like your hair like that," James stated and then continued his jog toward the house.

Mary paused, a faint smile traced on her lips.

They continued up the path past the mossy brick wall, and the wild flowers that laced the river. James ran ahead and then stopped to wait for her. When Mary caught up to the boy she saw that a patch of earth had been cleared.

James looked at her and spoke openly, "The flowers looked like they didn't have enough room to breathe, so I figured I would try to help them."

She looked at James her expression unreadable. They continued the walk in silence, James by her side. When they reached the great house they were greeted by the butler. Mary asked him to send in a footman to set up the room. The butler nodded respectfully and added a, "Yes, ma 'lady," before leaving the room. James didn't understand what Mary had meant by, _set up_ _the room_. He also felt self-conscious that she had seen his gardening. A wave of frustration coursed through his body. What was the reason why she always had to be so cold and distant, he wondered irritably. He thought she would be impressed with his work on the fence and he intended it to. But it seemed he would never be able to live up to her standards.

Mary followed the footman into the other room leaving James who was becoming more cross and disappointed by each passing moment. Bumps and clattering came from the room that Mary and the footman were in and James thought he heard a _click_. It sounded as if Mad Granny Mary had decided to rearrange the furniture. Growing more impatient James turned around about to go off and sulk; when suddenly the sound of an orchestra burst from the room, soon followed by Mary with paintbrushes in one hand and aprons in the other.

"Now, let's paint!" She exclaimed excitedly, waving the brushes in the air.

Mary ran toward James and took his hand. She led him into the music filled room, a smile on her face. The room was beautiful, light streamed through tall windows and paintings of flowers covered every inch of wall space. Mary let go of James' hand and jumped into the air celebrating the music and throwing several brushes into the air. James caught one. Spinning around the room and dancing, Mary dipped one of her brushes into the paint. She pursed her lips with sheer delight! She added a stroke to the canvas and then another. James approached her cautiously. He thought perhaps she had finally snapped into insanity.

"Come on, paint!" Mary cried over the music.

She stuck the tip of her tongue out of the corner of her mouth concentrating on her canvas. James dabbed the tip of his brush to the paint while examining her wild swipess. His brush had made several smooth and calculated strokes when Mary interrupted him.

"You're not listening."

"What?" James asked.

"You're not keeping with the rhythm of the music at all."

With a snide tone and dissatisfied look James said, "I'm not trying to."

Mary returned his snappy comment with a quizzical look and said mockingly, "Oh? I thought you were."

"You did not," he replied irritably.

Paint splattered into Mary's hair. Seeing paint in her silver hair made James lighten up slightly. She began inching toward his canvas, her hand and brush met his, instructing him how to keep in time with the music. After a few moments of her guidance they were dancing around the room. They used their brushes as batons and conducted the symphony. James was quite impressed with Mary's skill and creativity with the improvised baton. He wondered if she conducted this imaginary orchestra often. She lowered her brush swishing it through the air and landed it on his face leaving behind a streak of green. Laughter filled the room.

Mary turned to James and said, "You know, Mozart wrote this when he was about your age."

"No way!" James exclaimed with disbelief.

"Yes way!" she proclaimed.

They spent the rest of the day splattering paint on their canvases and themselves, creating music and art together.


	10. Mozart-Sonata for Two Pianos in D Major

_**9.**_

Later that evening James, Sarah and Alan were enjoying each other's company in the library. James browsed the ceiling to floor bookshelves while Alan read aloud to Sarah. James didn't like seeing the two together especially not that close. Brushing away his annoyance he asked his Mother,

"Do you think Gran has any books about Mozart?"

Sarah opened her eyes and looked at her son. "Yes, I'm sure she does", she said sweetly. Her delicate hand indicated to the bookshelf where she thought a biography about Mozart would be located.

"Aha, here's one!" James proclaimed pulling out an old book. He examined his treasure with pride.

"Did he really write his first symphony when he was only eight-years-old?" James asked.

"I'm not sure, dear," Sarah said wearing a bemused expression.

Alan paused and looked up from his book and then closed it.

"Yes, he did," he said kindly. "That was the symphony in E flat."

"Wow, it's neat that you know that!" said James.

Sarah and Alan glanced at one another. Their faces mirrored each other's expression of disbelief.

James reenacted every swish that Mary and James' brush-batons made. There was a light shining bright in his eyes. It was a light that Sarah had rarely seen before. "You know, Gran says that I'm going to get inspired like Mozart too someday," James said, his eyes alive and animated.

Alan gave James a warm, genuine and proud smile.

"You know, I bet you will."

It was a good night and enjoyed by all in the room.

...

Mary sat behind the desk in her bedroom exhausted from her and James' day of fun. She opened a drawer to put the book filled with loose leaf papers away. Mary caught a glimpse of herself in a small silver framed mirror that sat on her cluttered desk. She loved that simple mirror. It was a gift from a man who had a love for her like she was his own daughter. Charlie Carson would always have a place in her heart.

Her hair was an untidy mess again. Mary Crawley pushed the fallen pieces away from her face. After examining her features in the mirror for several moments the corners of her eyes crinkled from a sheepish smile. Her eyebrows rose with pleasant disbelief. It had been years since she had gawked at herself in a mirror.

"That boy," she uttered fondly.


	11. Hearing Voices

_**10.**_

The place was a wilderness of autumn gold and purple and violet blue and flaming scarlet and on every side were sheaves of lilies standing together, – lilies which were white or white and ruby. She remembered well when the first of them had been planted. Mary and her grandson sat on a great stump beside a bare flower –bed, planting bulbs.

James indicated to the bulb in his hand, "Why don't we put the hairy side up to the sky?"

"Those little _hairs_ are called _roots,_ " Mary corrected him, showing James a gentle smile. "And in order for the plant to grow the roots must be pointed down into the soil." She moved to sit on the ground; her back turned partially from James and planted her own set of bulbs.

James gave a quizzical look and then popped another bulb into the earth, the pip pointed skyward. He covered the hole and patted it down gently.

"What kind of lilies are these anyway?" James asked holding one of the bulbs by the roots.

"They're called Lily of the Valley," Mary said, " _Convallaria majalis_ to be precise."

"Do they also have a meaning like the roses?" James asked.

Mary smiled to herself, "They mean, _return of happiness_."

She caught James eyeing the plant suspiciously as he dug and without looking up he asked, "Do you ever miss my dad?"

Her nimble hands stopped briefly while she collected her thoughts. Even after eleven years it was still painful for her to think about her son. Mary was at peace with that fact and she felt it would be wrong to brushoff the hurt. Many people told her that the sting of a lost loved one lessens over time - that it gets better. But Mary knew that it didn't. She knew it merely becomes different.

She turned to face James. Her deep amber eyes locked on his pale blue.

"Yes," she said.

"I miss him too," James said as he looked away.

There was silence between the two. It was a quiet so deep it seemed to have paused the world. Mary's eyes never left her grandson. After several moments she broke the stillness.

Curiosity resonated in her voice, "Do you ever talk to him?"

"Who, my dad?"

"Yes," she said with a nod.

James shook his head. "No, he's dead."

"So?" Mary asked still observing James.

"So… I don't talk to him."

Mary continued to explore her grandson's face and then looked away with a faint smile. Standing up and brushing off the dirt she took hold of his hand firmly. They walked over to the massive tree stump that they were sitting on moments ago. Along the way Mary collected a container full of flower seeds.

She stepped onto the massive stump pulling James up with her. Once she stood on top she said, "We're here," indicating where they stood.

"And if we use our eyes we can see this far."

She turned in a full circle. Her thin straight finger pointed to the outskirts of the stump.

Mary lowered her hand into the container and pulled out a fistful of seeds and took hold of James' hand with the other. As she set the container down she indicated to the rich and dark soil that surrounded the trunk base.

"And if we use modern technology we can see this far."

She sprinkled the seeds around the trunk keeping hold of James' hand which made him turn in a circle with her.

Bending over to dip her hand into the seeds once more, Mary said, "And if we use our hearts and minds," she began spinning rapidly; releasing the seeds and sending them flying far into the distance, "we can see and know amazing things!"

James held onto her hand trailing behind her getting dizzy. They stopped and Mary held him close.

"Mozart heard the voices of the angels and the angels are all out here somewhere." She pointed all around them, and then she placed her hand on James.

"And here," she said lovingly.

James looked at her hand on his heart and then up at his grandmother's face. Their eyes met and he asked her if she heard the angels.

Mary took a moment before responding with a gentle "Y _es,"_ her hand still resting on James' heart.

His eyes searched hers desperately, but he saw only warmth and honesty. They both looked around the garden. Roses climbed and hung in clusters and the sunshine was deepening. The hue of the yellowing trees made one feel that one, stood in an empowered temple of gold.


	12. The Language of Flowers

_**11.**_

According to the sheet of paper lying on the table, James had to win one more match to beat Sarah at a sporting game of backgammon. James rolled the dice and they landed on double sixes. Gleefully he moved several of his pieces to home. Alan sat behind the mother and son reading a crisp newspaper with a tobacco pipe clenched between his teeth. Every once in a while Alan would lower his paper to check on the progress of the game. James missed the alone time he and his mother used to share.

Sarah leaned in over the board looking at James in the eyes, "Jimmie, I'm sorry I've been away so much lately. Preparations for the wedding have been complicated," she said earnestly.

"It's okay Mum," he said lowering his eyes.

Sarah stroked her son's cheek, "James, Mary told me that something happened. She said that you collapsed by the statue of your father."

Without looking at his mother's face James said, "I passed out. I don't remember much before that. I only remember hearing birds' wings flapping."

Sarah looked worried, "The last time you passed out because of your dad was two years ago and the counselor helped you with that problem. It's all gone isn't it?"

Alan looked up from his paper. A telephone rang down the hall.

"Isn't it?" she asked James again.

James was about to answer her question when the butler came into the library.

"The telephone is for you my lady," the butler said.

Sarah looked at him and asked who it was. The butler said it was a person calling about the flower arrangements for the wedding. Standing up Sarah gestured to James stating she would be gone only for a minute, but James knew their time was over.

James ran out of the library, past several servants and out Downton's great studded doors. Rage was blinding him. How could Mary betray him and tell his mother about that day, he thought furiously. Hot angry tears rolled down his cheeks. James felt betrayed and had the need to tell Mary he hated her. No, more than tell, James felt he had to show her.

Being careful not to trip he hurried to the greenhouse and selected the most menacing looking plant he could find. His plan was to find Mary and throw it at her feet, - a clear and precise message. He searched for his grandmother among the grounds for he knew it was rare for her to be inside during sunny days. She was not in the garden where they had planted the _new beginnings_ and she wasn't by the statue of his father. He searched for Mary everywhere his mind could think of, but he could not find her.

As James was about to give up he saw her. She was gazing at the pond. Sunbeams reflected off of the water's surface, sending streams of light across her face. James' grandmother didn't look up when he approached her, didn't say anything when he spoke to her. Mary's lack of reaction infuriated him and he threw the cactus at her feet, the pot shattered when it made contact with the ground.

"Cactus," Mary said, her eyes bemused, means _ardent love_ , and although she knew her shoes would never recover, she did appreciate the false sentiment.

James shook his head wildly, "No!" he cried, his voice a fiery whisper, " _Cactus means that I hate you_!" Tears ran down his face.

Looking away from the water, Mary approached the distraught boy and reached into her pocket. _Would you like to see my response?_ She asked.

He spun around to face the tiny white petals in her palm. _Dogwood_ , she said. _Love undiminished by adversity._

"I can teach you the flower for hate, if you like, but the word _hate_ is unspecific. Hate can be passionate and disengaged; it can come from dislike but also from fear, if you'll tell me exactly how you're feeling, I'll be able to help you find the right flower to convey your message."

"I don't like you," James said. "I don't like your flowers or your painting or your music or your bony fingers and I detest your land. I don't like anything about you. I don't like that my mother is getting married. I don't like Alan and he'll never be my father. And I don't like anything about the world either."

"Much better!" Mary seemed genuinely impressed by James' hate filled monologue.

"The flower you are looking for is clearly the common thistle, which symbolizes misanthropy. _Misanthropy_ means hatred or mistrust of humankind."

"Does humankind mean everybody?" James asked.

"Yes."

He thought about this. _Misanthropy_. No one had ever described his feelings in a single word.

"Do you have any thistles?"

"I'm sure we do. Let's go find some," Mary said, stepping over the shattered pot.


	13. Inspiration

_**12.**_

The next day James and Mary found themselves in George's old room. A man's room is a queer place – once the man has gone, this one, across the hall from Mary's, was the one George chose for himself when he graduated from the nursery. Mary told James it was not his father's first choice. When George was a boy he proclaimed that he no longer wanted to be watched over at night. George selected and preempted the guest chamber in the farthest part of the house and moved in the night without a whimper. But in the morning George informed Mary that he felt he ought to be near her in case she needed his help. George moved: the room was a volume of George's history from the day he was five years old. A record of his progress from that time until the bugles called him away. His books in the shelves range from Mother Goose Tales to Kant and his clan of thinkers, and up to what Morse planted and Marconi made to blossom.

Mary told James that his father took to telegraphy as a spark takes to the air wave. George was one of the first to raise a wireless mast from the top of his home and, of course Mary had to study and experiment with him. George bullied her into learning the code and his messages.

Looking back upon this with James, Mary began to say that she was impressed with the methods that were used that shaped out ends. Had it not been for that inkling of science of telegraphy which she gained in their play she should not have heard a message that, – She caught herself. She would speak no more of the message.

It was something of a bore to Mary to put in her time trying to master a complex thing like the wireless; and, of course, she never did become proficient. But when the grind was over, and they both had acquired some speed and receptiveness. It was great fun and they had a secret between them that made them pals. Mary and George used to sit up in the very room and pick up diplomatic secrets which they could not, fortunately, decode, and international messages which they could not, unfortunately, Mary believed now, decipher. And when George began to really grapple with the mathematics he spent his leisure hours trying to simplify Marconi's already simple apparatus.

After Mary had finished speaking, James pulled out two books from his father's bookshelf that he had been thumbing while he listened to her. The two of them sat in silence for most of the day, James stretched out and reading on George's bed and Mary thinking in the chair behind her son's desk.

"Gran, you know, I've been reading about the Morse code."

"Have you, why?" Mary asked.

James replied with a shrug, "I don't know."

Inspiration engulfed Mary's face. She reached over her shoulder and tapped the key. A clear sharp _dit-dah-dah-dah_ filled the room.

"What is that?" James asked.

"Morse," Mary replied, "how many beats did I tap?"

James guessed four.

"Were they long or short?"

"I don't know," he said becoming more curious by the second.

Mary gave James a disapproving look.

"You didn't listen," she said.

"I did too!" he proclaimed.

"I'm not talking about those wind-flaps on the side of your head," Mary extended her hands and placed them on her chest, "I'm talking about here, you have to feel it inside, listen!" Her excitement was growing.

Again she tapped out, _dit-dah-dah-dah._

James closed the book he was reading and jumped to his feet.

Mary spoke softly and instructed him to close his eyes and he did. He heard the beat once more.

"Short, long, long, long," he stated proudly.

With a confident smile Mary replied, "That was the letter J."

Her fingers rapped the key again.

"Two beats. Short, long, - The letter A!" James' exclaimed.

Mary's pride for her grandson grew as she tapped out another set of beats.

James recognized the rhythm and guessed the letter _M_. Then there was a spark in his eyes and he guessed that Mary was spelling out his name.

Her smile widened. She was impressed! Her grandson and her son appeared to be like-minded.

"Intuitive! Anticipate, always anticipate."

James smiled at her praise and asked for a harder word.

Mary tapped out another pattern. He began to guess, but Mary interrupted him. "Listen James, there's a pause between each letter equal to a dash. It's like music and painting and spacing flowers when you plant them. It's like Mozart."

After several hours of practice, Mary tapped out the word _jam_ and James being a clever boy guessed it quickly. It was James turn to tap out a word for Mary. _Mad._

"Who's mad?" Mary asked.

"You are," he replied with a cheeky grin.

"No!" she said bursting out with laughter. It was the full and good-hearted type of laugh. The kind that makes the earth shake and tears roll down your face, almost boastful. Upon hearing it you can't help but laugh as well. James began to giggle still reassuring her that his message was true and that she was certainly insane. How he loved her laugh, it filled the room and left his ears pleasantly ringing. When he heard her he was certain that he could hear the voices of angels in it.

The dinner gong rang interrupting their lesson. James let out a heavy sigh.

"One more word," Mary said. She wanted to give James a word that would leave weight and meaning - A word that would linger in the young boy's keen mind.

He stumbled at first, for it was the longest word she had ever given him. Mary knew her grandson could figure out the code. After all, he was George's son.

" _In-spir_ … _Inspiration_!" his eyes flashed when he made the connection. "Like Einstein!"

She breathed in and then out as pride coursed through her heart and warmed her body.

James suggested that they forgo supper and continue sending each other messages, but Mary placed a reassuring hand around his shoulder and said, "Don't worry, we'll be back."

They shut the door behind them leaving the room lighter and filled with more life than it had seen in years.


	14. Morning Flowers

_**13.**_

The next morning started out with a pleasant breakfast. Only James, his mother and Alan dined together. It wasn't unusual to not see Mary at the breakfast table for she often skipped the meal to walk the grounds and gardens. Sarah and Alan chatted pleasantly while James wolfed down his hot eggs, sausage and toast. He wanted to go join his grandmother.

As James chewed the last bit of food that was on his plate he pushed back his chair. He was about to excuse himself when Sarah suggested that she and James take a walk. The prospect of quality time alone with his mother excited him. He had been waiting for an invitation since she returned to the Estate several days ago. She put on her hat and sunglasses and they walked out the heavy doors.

The light hurt James' eyes, but once they adjusted he was greeted by a glorious day. The birds were in mid song and accompanied by the gentle shoosh of the breeze. James took a deep breath filling his lungs with the smells of summer morning.

They walked past several great trees and their leaves chatted with excitement when his mother's voice joined nature's choir.

"So Jimmie, what do you and granny talk about?" she asked earnestly.

James responded like a typical twelve-year-old boy. "We talk about all sorts of things." He trailed off being distracted by something shiny on an old kissing bench. The small plaque read,

 _In memory of Sybil Branson_

And a single white carnation lay beneath it. He knew Mary had left the flower, but at the time, he didn't know it was a symbol for the _sweet and lovely._ They sat on the bench and his mother continued.

"What sort of stuff?"

Holding the carnation and inhaling its sweet scent he answered, "We talk about nature, death, flowers, physics, Thoreau..."

Sarah's eyes widened with surprise and she interrupted James.

"Thoreau?" she asked.

James noticed her reaction when and asked if she had heard of him and with a smile she said she had.

He looked up at his mother's face.

"Gran is odd, but she's' fun." He looked toward the distance and then exhaled. There was a question he wanted to ask his mother, but he never had the chance until now.

"Mum, do you ever dream about dad?"

Sarah's eyes filled and she blinked furiously trying to hold back the tears. She tried to find her voice but not a sound would pass her lips.

James noticed his mother's distress and pulled out a folded piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to her. It was a painting of a flower. White clusters against a green backdrop bloomed before her eyes as she unfolded the paper. It was one of Mary's painted flowers.

" _Achillea millefolim_ ," James said, "Gran says everyone can all use a _cure for a broken heart_."

Sarah glanced at the watercolour, folded it and handed it back to him.

"Let's go back to the house," she said as she stood up from the bench. "There are storm clouds building and we mustn't get wet."

They passed several rows of zinnias on their walk back to the manor. If only his mother understood the language of flowers as well, then she would see the message they spoke, - A message that James was desperately trying to say. _I mourn your absence,_ as well.


	15. Our Land

_**14.**_

"Our land is alive, James," Mary said taking his hand as they walked through the gentle slopes of Downton's grounds. Soft green grass swooped over the hills and tree leaves rustled. James loved to walk with Mary through the vast open space; gazing up at her and watching her eyes dance with love for the land.

"This whole estate breathes and lives," she said, sweeping her arms toward the distant sky that surrounded them. Mary gently touched the grass and nature hushed as if it had been waiting for her. She picked up a handful of earth and studied it.

"Did you know that when you lie down on the land, you can feel it breathe? That you can feel its heart beating?"

"Gran, I want to feel it," James said.

"Come."

They walked to the top of the hill, where the slight incline of the land formed a lush comfortable swell.

Mary smoothed her dress then sat down and then looked up at James. She patted the earth next to her inviting him to sit.

James lay down on his stomach on the ground. Then, like a caterpillar, Mary slowly inched flat next to him, their faces looking at each other. The warm sun pressed on one side of their cheeks and the warm earth on the other.

James giggled.

"Shhh," she said. "You can only feel the earth's heartbeat when you are still and quiet."

James swallowed his laughter and after a moment said, "I can't hear it, Gran."

"You must be patient, James."

He waited and laid silent, watching Mary's eyes.

And then he felt it. Softly at first. A gentle thumping. Then stronger. A resounding thud, thud, thud against his body. He could hear it. The beat rushing in his ears. _Shoomp, shoomp, shoomp_.

Mary heard it as well. She stared at James, not wanting to say a word. Not wanting to lose the sound. Not wanting to forget the feel of the heart of the estate.

She watched as he pressed closer to the ground, until his body was breathing with the earths. And with Mary's. The three hearts beating together.

She smiled at James, not needing to talk, his eyes saying everything. And his smile answered hers. Telling her that he knew he had felt it.

At that moment, it struck Mary as a kind of painful melancholy. She could finally recognize herself in James. It was his smile. The same smile she wore from years ago.


	16. The Telegram

_**15.**_

Unlike the sunny days before, there was a constant blast of cold air that blew against Downton. The wind was whipping around corners of the castle and ominous clouds chased each other across the gray sky. The deluge began when Mary and James parted for their evening telegraph lesson, - James in his father's room and Mary in hers. The room was dark and it was hard to tell the outside from in. He flipped the light switch several times but the room remained dark. He couldn't believe he forgot to tell the servants that the lightbulb had burned out. Though he had traveled the path to his father's desk so many hundreds of times before, the darkness obscured everything and for a moment he was even unsure that he was going in the right direction. But then a flash of lighting split open the sky and he saw for an instant his father's desk and the wireless apparatus. However, James didn't see the stack of books that his grandmother had the custom of leaving around. He dropped to the floor followed by a great rumble from the books collapsing on top of him. Cymbals crashed as lightning flashed and the drums of thunder roared as he struggled to get to his feet. Once steady he ran to the desk missing the beginning of Mary's message. He yelled for Mary to wait, but the storm muffled his voice and she did not hear his cry.

James concentrated on writing the last part of her message on a sheet of paper.

 _The soul leaves_

 _the body_

 _as a school boy_

 _jumps from_

 _a school door_

 _suddenly_

 _and with joy_

 _There was no_ _horror_ _in my death._

James broke into a cold sweat, but it was fear that made him tremble. Shoving the paper in his trouser pocket he ran toward the door. Remembering the pile of books that encased his body only moments ago he leaped over them. Pushing himself through his room's exit he ran across the hall.

Despite the evidence of a fire in the hearth the room was drafty and dark. It was James' first time in his grandmother's room and he felt awkward bursting in. He looked for his grandmother but with only the light from the dying embers it was a challenge for his eyes to decipher which pile of books, papers, and other assortment of items apart. The room would have been stately if it wasn't littered with clutter and disorder.

As he stepped further into Mary's maze he passed several vases of wilting flowers and pictures in stately frames when his eyes spotted a reposed figure drooping against the inside of an armchair.

"Gran?" he uttered, afraid of the response or lack of.

Mary's head rose slowly.

"What the hell does that mean?" he said as he approached her. His fear suddenly shifted to anger.

The wooden legs of the armchair creaked as Mary lifted herself out of it. She took several steps toward her grandson, her eyes intent on his.

James was afraid again and backed into a pile of papers sending it falling to the ground. His voice was tight, "You really are a witch…"

Mary reached her ghostly pale hand towards James and he thought she was going to grab him. Then suddenly her hand reached for a desk and opened a drawer that held a leather bound booklet.

James studied Mary closely and then his eyes drifted to the book she held in her hands. The leather was black and well-worn and papers stuck out of it in a disorderly fashion.

"I was sitting in that chair on the night of the 15th of July, 1943 when the wireless transferred that message." Her eyes widened searching for any indication on James' face that he understood.

"Georgie was in Sicily. I shot out of the chair and I ran into his room. I thought he must be home. The wireless was off, the key was unplugged and the room quite still. I rushed through the house and no one was awake."

She reached into her pocket and pulled out a wrinkled piece of paper that the original message was transcribed on. Unfolding and smoothing out the well-worn piece of paper she read the same message aloud. _Mother_ , was the beginning of the message James had missed. Her voice was soft as if she was a ghost.

Mary opened the booklet and pulled out another piece of paper and handed it to James.

"A week passed when I got this telegram," she said.

James examined the paper. There was a black official stamp in the center top page and below it read _Buckingham Palace_.

He read:

 _We are deeply saddened to report that your son George Matthew Crawley Commander in the Eighth Army was killed on war service on the 15_ _th_ _of July, 1943._

 _The Queen and I offer you our heartfelt sympathy in your great sorrow._

 _We pray that your country's gratitude for a life so nobly given in its service may bring you some measure of consolation. He fought for his country valiantly._

 _George R.I._

"Dad died on July 15th? The same day you received the message over the wireless?" James asked.

Mary swallowed hard and nodded affirming his calculations. Tears began to pool in the bottom of her eyes.

"Lost..." she uttered. She then handed the book and papers to the boy.

He held them in his hand trying to understand the puzzle that she had laid before him. They stood in silence for what felt like an eternity when a strange voice cried Mary's name shattering the silence.

It was a voice Mary knew well. She looked up wiping the tears away from her face.

"Mary," the voice cried again.

Giving James a reassuring expression she walked passed him and opened the door. Standing in the hall was an older gentleman with thinning grey hair. He stood about 5'10 and had twinkling eyes. It was no other than Tom Branson.

"I brought the Bushmills!" he declared holding up a brown paper bag triumphantly. Tom was happy to see Mary. You could see it in his eyes and in his affectionate smile. She approached the Irishman and returned his smile with a stern tilt of her chin. Her eyes were set and less than warm. The air felt tense and ominous and their many years of friendship told Tom that something was amiss.

"I forgot you said you were coming over," she said taking hold of the paper bag to examine it.

James walked out of the room still in a daze. There was a click from the door latching behind him. He looked at the exchange between the two adults. Mary turned around and led James by the shoulders to Tom.

"Tom, you recognize your great nephew, don't you."

Tom took a step back in disbelief.

"Of course I recognize him! James my boy, the last time we were together you were just a small boy. You're much bigger in person than in the photos your mother sent me awhile back."

Tom turned to Mary, "He looks exactly like George. It's unbelievable!"

Mary's reassuring grip tightened around James' shoulders. James was not her son, – James was his own person. James was James and she never wanted her grandson to forget. Deciding to change the subject she asked Tom if he wanted to have dinner.

"That was the plan," Tom said wryly.

Turning to James, Mary said, "You must be starving as well."

He wasn't hungry but he felt it would be the wrong answer to decline the invitation. His mind was still racing with the information Mary had given him in her room only moments ago.

"I guess…" he said. Mary gave James a nod and walked away leaving him and Tom alone.

After Mary turned the corner Tom turned his attention to James. He wore a friendly smile.

"How are you, James? Mary told me you were visiting over the holiday. These walls have seen a lot of Crawley history. Have you been enjoying yourself?" Tom questioned.

James tried to remember the last time he had seen his great uncle, but his head was still spinning. He wished that he and Mary's conversation hadn't been interrupted so she could have explained more. How was it possible that his father sent Mary a message after he had died, he wondered. The harder he held the leather booklet the more his hands shook and he dropped it. As gravity took hold the book's crisp papers scattered like the burnt red and yellow and rusty orange leaves that fall during autumn.

Tom bent over to help James pick the paper up. He examined several and his smile disappeared. He passed the pages to James and suggested that they walk down to the foyer. Upon arriving he instructed James to wait in one of the plush chairs beside the ornate hearth. Once James was settled, Tom asked if he could have the book. James accepted. Tom then set off to the kitchen to find Mary.

The kitchen had changed since the days he had first arrived as well as its traditions. He imagined the cook during his time. Mrs. Patmore would have been struck down blind at the sight of seeing grand Lady Mary serve herself. Never the less know where the cups were stored. How times had changed and how he and Mary had altered along with it, he thought. The years of hurtles and challenges had altered her. Although her hair had turned to silver and her face transformed from life, Tom could still see traces of the Lady Mary he knew from so many years ago.

He approached her. The glasses in her hand clinked and the bottle of whiskey sat on the table. She placed herself on an old wooden stool, her eyes trained on Tom.

"Mary, I know what you're doing and I want you to stop, right now," Tom said, as Mary's nimble fingers undid the bottles wrapping. She poured a bit of the ochre coloured liquid into both glasses then slid one closer to Tom while drowning hers in seconds.

"I saw George's book and it's not right to share it with James," Tom said placing the well-worn book on the table.

Mary kept her eyes focused on Tom not uttering a word. Then with a single swallow she drank his glass as well.


	17. Vesuvius

_**16.**_

After a delicious meal and stories the three of them walked to the library enjoying the pleasant sensation that laughter, drink and a well fed tummy brings. Despite their dialogue in the kitchen, Mary and Tom seemed to be able to enjoy the moment and each other's company. Years of friendship taught them to be forgiving and to move forward. The Bushmills also helped disarm any barriers. A warm fire burned in the hearth and greeted them as they entered the room. The area was cozy and attractive and the fire's flames danced making shadows on the walls. Tom sat in the plush seat to the right of the hearth and James plopped down on the opposite side. Mary leaned against the armchair between the two.

Tom began to chuckle, "Mary, do you remember when we were riding our bicycles through Naples after you divorced, Henry?"

She closed her eyes and nodded, amused by the memory.

"And do you remember how I asked you to marry me?"

James eyes widened, "You asked my gran to marry you?" He couldn't hide the animated surprise out of his voice.

Mary threw her head back laughing. "He did not!" she exclaimed.

Tom turned his attention to James. "I did to, and it was on Mount Vesuvius," he said sending James a wink.

"You did not!" Marry proclaimed again, chuckling.

"Alright," Tom agreed, "but I was on my knees."

"You were not," she said roaring with laughter, "you were dead drunk and you fell over."

It was evident that Tom had a bit of alcohol in his system. His cheeks were flushed and his smile wide. James still wasn't clear on how he and Tom were linked, but he liked the fellow anyway. Tom stood up from his chair muttering about his balance and then he started to dance a little jig, accompanying himself with a merry tune. Mary chimed in; her voice was light and capable. Unlike Tom, Mary remembered the lyrics to the song.

 _Jamme, jamme 'ncoppa, jamme jà,_

 _funiculì, funiculì, funiculì, funiculà!_

 _la, la, laa!_

Tom swung his arms from side to side waving Mary over. She floated to him and wrapped a table cloth around her waist along the way. Laughter and joy filled the air. James ran to the antique gramophone and selected a record to play. Hearing the needle pull against the vinyl slowed the two dancers. During mid twirl Mary asked James, "What's that?"

"Tchaikovsky!" James replied, his face aglow.

Mary stopped spinning and turned to face James. Her eyes were closed and she tilted her head toward the ceiling and purred, "Tchaikovsky."

Both set of eyes, one pair set in deep lines, a deep sea blue and the other full of life and the colour of ice, stared at her. The first notes wafted into the air and Mary took Tom's hand. They began gliding around the room keeping in perfect time and step with the music. They peered at each other, both wearing a sweet smile. Mary wrapped her arms around Tom's neck and pulled him into a tight embrace and he returned the affection. James watched them dance and found the scene charming. Tom spun Mary out and then wrapped her back in his arms holding her tight, then planted a gentle kiss on her cheek. Her face flushed and she smiled sheepishly. The pair drifted around the room once more and then Tom looked at James.

He asked, "Are you going to cut in?"

James shuffled his feet awkwardly. "I can't… I can't dance."

Tom gave James a friendly look. "Get over here," he told him playfully. "Just follow her lead. That's what I do!"

Mary noticed her grandson's nerves and released Tom's hands and swayed her way to her grandson.

They spun around the room, once, twice, three times leaving Tom to enjoy the show from his armchair.

After the music ended Tom excused himself announcing that nature was calling. As he passed Mary she bumped him playfully with her hip causing everyone to laugh. The instant Tom was out of sight, James turned to Mary.

"Gran?" he asked, "How exactly am I related to him?"

"You're not. He's the widower of my younger sister, Sybil."

James nodded remembering the snow-white carnation on the bench. Another question came to his mind.

He asked, "What were you two doing in Italy?"

"I have had two husbands, your Grandfather Mathew and Henry. Shortly after I married Henry, I realized that your grandfather was the only man I could ever love. Once I became pregnant with your aunt the relationship between Henry and I improved slightly, but we still couldn't see eye to eye. So, we divorced. During that difficult period in my life Tom bought two bicycles and took me off to Naples. He said it was to _cheer me up._ " She wore a tender expression.

James' eyes widened and returned Mary's glance with a half-teasing half-serious look.

"And why are you both just _friends_?" he asked.

" _Damn you,_ Mary Crawley!"

They both turned to face Tom. He was shaking his fist in the air clutching a prescription bottle. "You haven't taken one of these pills. You promised me you would!"

"That's why," Mary said answering James' question.

James nodded and then asked what the pills were for. Mary glanced at James again.

"Indigestion," she stated simply.

"Indigestion my ass," Tom replied with frustration prominent in each spoken syllable. "You're the most stupid woman I have ever met in my life." He grumbled as he walked out of the library.

Mary cupped her hands around her mouth making an amplifier. "Do be careful not to fall going to your room."

"I'll be gone in the morning!" Tom proclaimed irritably. His tone made Mary replied with a rebellious chortle. She poured herself another drink and James asked,  
"Gran, you really shouldn't have another…"

"Don't you start," she said smirking, "I'm healthier than he is."

Several moments had passed when James turned to Mary again. Her dark ember eyes reflected the light off of the fire. His mind turned to the conversation they had shared in her room earlier that night.

"Gran, did it really happen?" he asked.

Tilting her head and concentrating on James, she asked, " _What do you think"_

 _ **Author's note:** My Dear Reader Chums, a very hearty hello to you. I send you my apologies for taking such a long hiatus. I have come across some hiccups in my personal life regarding my health, but I will do my best to update more regularly and frequently._

 _Also, I caught up with your lovely reviews. Thank you, they're always appreciated, and I edited the story. So, hopefully the changes uphold to your appeals._

 _Thank you very much please thank you, Madame or Sir._

 _\- DW_


	18. The Voices of Angels

_**17.**_

James and his mother sat in the drawing room putting together a puzzle. It had been several days since Mary had shared his father's book and telegraph. James' fingers halfheartedly fiddled with the colourful pieces. His thoughts kept drifting between Tom, who kept his word after the row and left the next day and to his father's message. _There was no horror in my death,_ kept repeating itself in James' head. At times it soothed him and at others it stirred up a hurricane from within. Sarah could tell that her son was distracted. She was about to ask what preoccupied his mind when she saw his face light up. Turning her head to the entrance of the library she saw that Mary had entered the room.

"Well, shall we go?" Mary said, directing her question at James. He looked at his mother pleadingly and with a sigh, Sarah gave them her permission to leave.

The sky felt bigger today. It curved from one low horizon line to the other, the blue seeping into the hills and dulling the green of summer. It reflected in the pupils of Mary's eyes. The colour felt inescapable and as heavy as her silence. They walked in silence for a long time, James following her lead. He hadn't a clue where she was taking him and a thousand questions buzzed in his head. He wanted his answers, but he didn't know where to start, so he resorted to day dreaming. The creak from the wooden kissing gate's hinge snapped him out of his daze. They were standing in the woods and the ruin of his father's statue was around the corner. James startled at the realization and he looked up at Mary.  
"Let's go to the pond," he suggested.

A similar sensation pulsed through his body the day he blacked out. Mary gave James a reassuring expression and told him that she would like to visit the statue. He hurried ahead of her trying to prove to himself more than his grandmother that all was well. His pace was rapid and Mary didn't try to keep up with him. Because of his speed he reached the front of the statue quickly. From behind, Mary kept a close eye on James, remembering their last experience that had taken place there. James gazed into the face of the carved statue of his father, but the more he stared the more his own muscles stiffened. It was as though James was becoming a statue himself.

Mary rushed over to him speaking his name gently. She lowered herself to the boy and he startled when her arms wrapped around him. James shut his eyes fiercely and his body began to tremble. An eerie cry of a bird rang through the cool air. Holding him and drying the watermarks from his face, Mary softly instructed her grandson to open his eyes.

"I can't, I can't do it," he told her repeatedly.

Mary brushed the sandy blonde hair away from his face and wrapped her arms tighter and more securely around him.

"Trust me, you _can,_ and it will hurt much less after you do. I promise you."

He listened to the wisdom and love that he knew to be her and he slowly opened his eyes. Ivy had engulfed the stone figure leaving only patches of rock visible. James peered into the weather worn face once more and his knees buckled, but Mary held him firmly, supporting him in her arms.

"Tell me dear, what's wrong?" she cooed.

James buried his face in his hands. "Why didn't he come back?" James wailed, "Didn't he love us at all? If he did, he would have lived and come back. Didn't he understand that I would need him?"

Mary looked deep into James' eyes, "Has your Mother never talked to you about your father?"

"Mum never talks about Dad, besides she doesn't have the time now," he said bitterly.

Mary swallowed hard, "Your father was on one of the ships that sank during the invasion at Sicily. All aboard were lost. He fought for you, for your mother, for me, for his country and its people. He fought for the world as we know it."

She stroked his cheek tenderly, "He loved you very much. You were his reason and his life and your father felt he had to do all he could to protect the people he loved most."

James blinked his eyes fiercely taking in all that she said, but anger began to rise within him.

"If he loved us so much, how can everyone let go and forget about him?" He pulled away from Mary's arms and began ripping sheathes of ivy from the statue.

"Even _you_ want to forget about him. Otherwise you would have taken care of his statue and not let these weeds overcome it." He began hitting his little fists against the clammy stone and Mary grasped them within her hands.

"James, your father and his sacrifices will never be forgotten and I didn't clear the ivy away because it too has a meaning."

Looking into his icy blue eyes she continued, "When I saw that ivy had begun to grow I took it as a sign, so I let it be." She plucked a leaf from a vine and placed it in his hand. "Ivy is the symbol for, _fidelity._ The word fidelity means constant _faithfulness, loyalty_ and _dependability_ , everything that your father was, and is."

He burrowed his face in Mary's blouse and cried, "He doesn't even know I love him."

Embracing the child she said, "Yes he did. Yes, he does."

James met Mary's eyes and she whispered, "Do you know what your Daddy told me? He told me that for every man, woman and child that's hurt and terrified there are comforters. And he said, one day I would be easing a boy in my arms, who was crying for his father and I couldn't comfort him... Then I heard someone beside me say, " _I will take him"_. It was a soft, strange, white light, but I knew who it was…"

James listened to Mary's words letting her message surround him. He still held the dark green leaf in his hand, the texture was smooth and cool. Looking up into Mary's eyes, he asked, "Do you think my dad had someone like that?"

After placing a tender kiss on his forehead she gazed at him reassuringly and said, "I'm sure he did."

James turned around in Mary's arms to face the statue and started restoring the symbol of _fidelity_ to the way it was before. Mary released him and started to help. When their task was finished they stood side by side admiring their work. Then James slipped his hand into hers and she held onto it firmly. Hand in hand they walked to the simple bench and sat down.

"Why did you want to come here anyway?" James asked her.

"I saw you here," she said kindly. "That day you broke my fence," she added with a chuckle. "I knew you had a terrible grief."

They looked at each other for a long time and then Mary stood to adjust her clothing.

"What if you don't know the Morse code?" James asked.

Mary stared into the distance taking in her surroundings. The gentle breeze made the trees sway.

"We have to open our minds," she said looking up into the vast sky. "Georgie and I knew the Morse code, but people communicate differently, like with flowers or like Mozart and his angels."

James studied Mary closely. "But how come I didn't hear him?"

"Perhaps it's because you never talked about your grief," she replied.

Looking away from her grandson the rims of her eyes filled with tears again. James moved to her and grabbed the sleeve of her blouse and she held the boy in her arms letting the tears fall. She blew her nose in a handkerchief and then locked eyes with his.

"Grief often gets in the way," she added. Reaching her hand into her pocket she pulled out the black leather journal, its papers no longer disheveled. "I'd like you to read this," handing James George's book.

 _Author's Notes:_

 _Dearest fanfiction pursuers,_

 _My apologies, but it will be a while until I am able to continue Still Mary. Once my health is tiptop and tickety boo, I promise to pick up where we left off._

 _Truly,_

 _DW_


	19. The Book

**_18._**

 _Message 2_

 _15th of July, 1943, the day the telegram came._

 _I was sitting in my room when I heard the telegraph come through - Mother, I am alive and loving you. But my body is with thousands of other mother's boys near Sicily. Get this fact to others if you can. It's awful for us when you grieve and we can't tell you we are all right. The capacity for believing is enlarged tremendously by experience. If you could only fix in your mind that I am I. Not a ghost, but a being just as much as I ever was. You have never failed me Mother._

James carefully closed George's book and stroked the worn leather with his hand. It was nearly half-past-ten and his eyes were beginning to become heavy. He rolled to his side and studied the black and white framed photograph on the nightstand by his bed. His father's smile glistened at him through the glass. He picked the frame up and placed it on his chest and soon fell asleep, his arms wrapped around his father's portrait.

The clocks in the great house chimed eleven times, but James did not wake. He didn't even stir when his bedroom door made an eerie creak. Alan quietly entered the room and saw James sleeping soundly. His heart was touched seeing the lad dreaming peacefully. He carefully unfolded James' arms to retrieve the frame and then studied the photo. His chest tightened and then sank.

Unwrapping the blanket tangled around James he heard a thud when George's book fell to the ground. He thought the noise surely would have awoken the boy, but James breathing remained deep and steady. Alan draped the blanket around James and then bent to the floor to pick up the book. He flipped it open and read the first few sentences from a random page. The writing immediately caught his attention. He reached over the boy's sleeping figure and turned off the lamp. Then he retreated to the door with the book in hand.

Passing several ornate wall hangings Alan went down the stairs and walked to the Library. The hearth was still glowing with orange embers that warmed his favourite chair. He sat down and opened George's book to page one. As he read the embers grew cold and dark. The first morning light peered through the windows reflecting floating dust in its glow. He continued to read. One of the maids yawned as she entered the room to light the fire for the day. Mary preferred for there always to be warmth in Downton, especially in the Library. The young maid startled at the sight of Alan.

"I beg your pardon, Sir." Alan didn't seem to hear the young woman; he was too engrossed in the journal. She stammered and began to say, "I didn't know anyone was-"

Alan cut her off, "Not to worry, please pass a message to Sarah for me. Tell Sarah that I am looking for her, but do not wake her. I shall wait for her here. Tell her it is of the utmost importance."

With a polite curtsy the young maid agreed to pass on the message.

Slightly longer than thirty-minutes had passed and Sarah came into the room. She sat in the chair across from him. "Hello dear, is something wrong? You didn't come to bed."

Alan closed the leather bindings and pinched the bridge of his nose. With a sigh he opened his eyes and passed the book to Sarah, "It's from Mary. It's a book of messages from George after he died."

Sarah took the book looking confused.

"What?" she uttered. She opened George's book and read several pages. Her eyes batted with disbelief. There wasn't a word ushered between the two and yet they understood each other completely.

...

The air was still sweet with the prospects of a new day. Mary emerged clutching two steaming mugs one in each hand.

"Drink it," she said, handing James one of the cups. "It will help keep you warm." James grasped the mug between his hands. He blew on the tea and took a careful sip and then spat it out.

"I don't like it," he said, pushing the cup forward.

"Try again," Mary said. "You'll get used to it. Peppermint blossoms mean _warmth of feeling_."

He took another sip. This time he held it in his mouth a little longer before spitting it out over his armrest. "You mean warmth of bad taste."

"No, warmth of feeling," Mary corrected him. "You know, the tingling feeling you get when you see a person you like."

James didn't know the feeling well. He only felt that sensation when he was with Mary.

"Warmth of _bitterness_ ," he said taking another sip and sending her a cheeky grin.

Mary chuckled and swallowed a bit of the warm liquid. She wrapped her long fingers around the mug and pulled it toward her. The scent and warmth of the tea brought with it reassurance instantly. In the distance her eyes focused on a robin that was bobbing across the grass. With each little hop dewdrops shimmered like crystals.

Mary nudged James' with her arm.

"James, look." She said pointing at the robin as it pulled a fat earthworm from the ground.

His eyes were fixed on the bird, but Mary became distracted from the sound of crunching pebbles. She turned slightly and saw Sarah and Alan walking toward them. Their expressions were resolute and cold. Turning her attention back to James, Mary reached over and placed her delicate hand reassuringly on his forearm.

"James, could you bring me Georgie's book?"

James turned his attention away from the robin. His hands were still wrapped around his mug. He inhaled the intense fragrance of peppermint into his lungs. The steam still wafted in the cool morning air. Sensing that something was amiss James turned his head. He was disappointed to see his mother and soon-to-be-father. Not wanting to engage with Sarah and Alan, he gave Mary a quick nod and scampered inside, glad for an excuse to escape.

Mary stood to greet them, her statuesque figure drawn to full height.

Alan also drew himself to full height. He was taller than Mary, but she had an air to her that lowered anyone's self-image. He held out a book to her, "This is yours," he said accusingly.

Mary stared at him and her eyebrows rose as she glanced at Georgie's book. The thin leather binding creased in Alan's outstretched hand. She didn't take it.

Sarah, looking small in comparison of the two took the crinkled book from Alan and then shoved it roughly into Mary's hands.

"We don't want you to have any more contact with James, Mary." Sarah's tone was stern, "How could you do this to a twelve-year old boy, Mary?"

Mary held her head high, pride was laced behind every syllable, "What is it, exactly, which I am doing?" she asked.

Alan stared at Mary, exasperation washed over his face. "This is a young boy who has never completely come to terms with the death of his father. How could you possibly give him a book like that?"

"To help him understand," Mary replied.

"Understand what?" Sarah asked, "Something you fabricated? You made this up, Mary."

"There's no horror in death and the sooner you understand that the sooner you'll be able to help James," Mary said. The three of them stared at each other. No one dared to break eye contact.  
"Staying alive - that's what's difficult, isn't it?" Mary retorted.

"I'm not going to let you hurt my child," Sarah proclaimed.

Mary stared at Sarah skeptically. "I'm not the one hurting him."

Sarah's face flushed, "And I am?" she asked. "This is dangerous. Can you understand that?" She pointed at the battered book with disgust. "How you choose to justify the death of George is your business, but I'm not going to let you impose this fantasy on a child as fragile as James. So please, just stay away."

Sarah turned and began to walk away with Alan by her side.

"He needed someone to talk to," Mary said.

"I don't want him here," Sarah exclaimed dismissing Mary's comment.

A gust of cold wind pierced through Mary's clothing. It felt like a sharp blade was pressed against her skin.

"So be it," she said. It was a statement spoken more for herself than anyone else.

 _Author's Notes:_

 _Well hello to you dear fanfiction browser, it feels lovely to be back. Let's hope the improvements with my health last. I appreciate your patience and I apologize for the lack of writing, but to make it up to you I added a bit more to this chapter. I also added titles to the chapters!_

 _Press on,_

 _DW_


	20. The Book Part II

**_19._**

Distant thunder growled in the background as Alan and Sarah walked through the solid doors that led into Downton Abbey. A wave of warmth surrounded them and flames flickered in the fireplace making the room alive with light. James was waiting for them on the edge of the armchair next to the fire. It was clear that the young boy was vexed.

"Where's my book?" he spat accusingly.

"We took it back to her," Alan said.

"It was mine. It was a gift. You had no right!" James stated, holding back his tears.

Sarah tried to discipline her son and with an impatient gesture she ordered him to go upstairs to pack his things.

"Stay away from Mary," Sarah commanded.

Alan placed an affirmative hand on James' shoulder prompting him to do as Sarah had instructed, but his attempt was ineffective. The fire crackled and a hot and prickly rage began to engulf James. One of the logs gave a loud _pop_ and James pushed Alan's hand off of him and ran to the door.

"You're not my father! Go to hell!" James snarled.

"What did you say, young man?" Sarah asked, but it was too late. James was already through the door and a brash roar of thunder muffled her words.

Icy raindrops splattered against his face mixing his tears with the rain.

Sarah chased after him, "James, you come back here or you're grounded for the rest of the holiday!"

James shouted over the storm several feet ahead of her, "How would you know, you're never around!"

Sarah was not wearing the proper shoes designed for a chase. The heel of one of her white shoes sunk deeply into the soft earth and she fell to her knees. As she toppled to the ground, the wet terrain splattered mud leaving freckles on her face.

Alan was not far behind her. Upon seeing Sarah on the ground, Alan quickened his pace. He helped a very mucky Sarah back to her feet. Once she was standing again they looked into the distance, but James had disappeared into the cloak that was provided by the heavy rains. Sarah called out to him, but there was no reply. She tried to take a step forward to continue the chase, but Alan held her back.

His voice was tender, "You're soaked to the bone and shivering. Go inside and I'll go after James."

...

James heart was racing and his mind filled with only the thoughts of finding Mary. He ran into the woods, past the tree trunks that formerly captivated him. Once he was through the wooden kissing gate, and past the rhododendrons, he saw the ivy covered statue standing tall and wild out of the ground. Mary was not there.

Choking down his disappointment he turned around and ran to the pond where he threw the cactus at his grandmother's feet. His insides churned at the memory. He regretted shouting at Mary. The traditional glassy and calm surface the pond ordinarily possessed was replaced with small waves. The grasses blew wildly from the storm's wind. The little boat pulled and fought hard against its tethers that held it captive to the dock. James looked around frantically, but Mary was not there.

He took off again. Determination strengthened his step and the love in his heart protected him from the licks of nature's cold storm. He ran to the last place he could think where she might be - the garden where Mary had taught him how to see. He ran to the garden of _New Beginnings_.

A creak greeted him as he walked through the heavy wooden gate that was the only entrance to the garden. Vines covered it completely and he felt sure Mary and he were the only people who knew the whereabouts of the entrance. James usually enjoyed opening the gate to their secret garden because he was always greeted with the scent of lilies, but this time when he entered the scent nearly knocked him to the ground. He pushed through the wilderness; twigs and branches grabbed at his clothes and scratched his face. As he entered the clearing a root to an old tree caught hold of his foot and toppled him onto his stomach. He was covered in mud.

James quickly got to his feet and wiped the muck from his face with his equally grimy sleeve. There was Mary. She was sitting on the same stump where she taught him how to see. He called out to her, but she did not reply. Mary was digging holes in the ground as raindrops spatter against her back. James watched her reach into her pocket and saw her pull out fistfuls of tiny round brown seeds. He kneeled down beside her, but still, Mary didn't look up from her task.

"Are those Canterbury Bell seeds?" he asked.

Mary gave James a nod confirming his guess.

" _Campanula medium,_ it symbolizes constancy, right?"

Mary gave another nod. He sat beside his grandmother for what felt like hours with only the heavy rain and their breathing interrupting the silence.

"Gran," he tried to say. Upon hearing her name Mary looked up. She stared into James' eyes then stood and began to search the garden. Her usual grace was replaced with odd and machinelike movements. Finally, she found what she was looking for. Mary plucked a magnificent striped carnation and handed it to him. James took the flower and knew the meaning instantly. A striped carnation means - _I cannot be with you._

He held the carnation, the petals trembled. He couldn't tell if it was his hands or the raindrops that drizzled over everything that made the flower shake. His heart beat loudly in his ears.

"Why did you give this to me?'" he asked.

Mary turned her back to James, "Because I don't want you to come here anymore."

"Why?" James pleaded, blinking away the tears that pooled in the corners of his eyes, "because of my Mum and Alan?"

"No, because it isn't true, it didn't happen."

"I don't believe you. Alan told you to say that," James cried.

Mary's ocher eyes met James and then flickered away. "No, listen. I talk to Georgie in my mind, after he was killed and then I wrote it all down."

"The messages?" James asked, trying to make sense of everything.

"Yes, I made them up."

"You lied to me?" he asked, choking down the pain and betrayal he felt.

Mary paused and looked at James squarely in the eyes.

"Yes. I did."

"Why?" James pled, but his cry was never met with an answer. He wished she would look away. He wished for her to somehow express that she was forced by his mother and Alan to tell him these fabrications. The colour drained from his face as he realized she would do no such thing. He threw the carnation to the ground. His heart was pounding against the cage in his chest and his ears rang. As he walked away from Mary, his eyes reflected the colour of the rain.

...

 _One, two, three, four_ , - Mary counted every step James took, each growing fainter. The rain began to pick up and it lashed against her back. It felt like ice cold needles piercing through her skin. She wanted to turn around and go after him, but on the inside she felt cold and frozen.

"Get up," she instructed herself, but she didn't move. She commanded herself once more, "Get up!" but still, she didn't move.

The heavens filled the sky with a crack of lighting and was shortly followed by a boom. The noise startled her and sent an electric jolt through her chest. It was just what she needed to help propel herself to her feet. Once at full height she held her pose like an ancient masterpiece: grandiose, fascinating, beautiful and slowly falling apart. The wind had vanished from her lungs and she felt utterly exhausted. Fiddling with the lily in her hand she tried to prepare herself for the journey back to the house. The weather turned to even heavier rains and her thoughts followed the exact same process.

"James," she called, but another roar of thunder muted her cry.

She tried to call his name again, but she couldn't catch her breath. She felt a tremendous, dull, pressing pain in the centre of her chest, as if someone had reached their hand through her ribcage and squeezed her heart. The wind screamed in her ears and the pressure was overwhelming. A blinding sting was felt between her shoulder blades. The pain became too great and it stole the little breath she had left. Just as the great empires that fell before her, Mary Crawley crumbled to her knees. There was a wet thud as her body hit the ground and the pale white bloom rested beside her hand, stained with mud.

...

James clutched the iron latch to the gate so firmly it made his knuckles white. He was about to leave the garden, the comfort, the flowers, the memories and the love he had known behind, but he didn't want to leave. He couldn't leave. His heart lurched pulling him in the direction toward his grandmother. James let go of the cold metal and trudged his way back to where he had left Mary. The ground was becoming slicker and he struggled to stay upright. Once he reached the massive stump again he saw her collapsed in the mud. He called her name, but his cries were met with silence.

Rushing over to Mary, his foot unknowingly crushed the mud splattered lily beside her. Once on his knees he grasped her face with his hands and tried to rouse her.

"Wake up, Gran! I know you can hear me! Wake up!" He shouted desperately. There was no reply.

He tried rousing her again, "Don't you dare die on me. Come on Gran… Wake up. Wake up…" but only silence met his ears.


	21. Alan

_**20.**_

The storm blew at such force it pelted the rain horizontally. Wind churned making the trees sway back and forth. Alan could hardly see three feet in front of him and his clothes were saturated to his skin.

With his deep baritone voice he shouted for James, but like so many cries before, the storm drowned out his efforts. He passed a water fountain that was over flooding from the rain. The pebbles marking the path crackled as the excess water rushed over them. Alan shouted for James again, but there was no reply. He was beginning to become panicked. It was far too dangerous for anyone to be out in this category of storm.

A shiver ran up his spine and it wasn't the cold that made him tremor, it was fear. He ran past numerous stone figures and the vegetable garden still calling for James, but there was no response. Deep pools of water were everywhere. He ran past a wall covered with sheaths of ivy shouting James' name. The hope of finding him in this downpour was dimming by the moment. Taking a seat on a bench he buried his face in his hands. What he was going to tell Sarah he did not know. He knew he had to keep looking. He knew he had to find James.

Alan closed his eyes and looked up to the skies. The rain washed over his face as he thought of where he might find James. Each location seemed more unlikely than the last. Suddenly, it dawned on him; if he could find Mary he would find James. He tried thinking of where she might be. Alan knew Mary always retreated to her gardens, but which one? The possibilities was maddening. He pulled his coat over his head about to start his search again when he heard a faint voice.

"James!" it wailed. The disembodied voice sounded as if it came from the wall that was oppressed with ivy. Impossible. The wind must be playing a trick on my ears, Alan thought. Or perhaps, the desire to find the two was so great his mind fabricated the voice out of sheer desperation.

In the midst of his doubts he heard a cry from a boy. From then on he knew his mind wasn't telling him any falsehoods. He ran to the wall ripping sheaths of ivy to the ground. His fingers met nothing but cold stone. He worked his way to the right pulling down every vine. The stone was scraping against his fingers and knuckles. Fortunately, his hands were accustomed to manual work and his calluses protected him from most of the damage.

Nearly a fourth of the wall's foliage had been torn down when his hands finally came across a door. He jiggled the iron handle and the door opened with ease. As he walked into the garden he was engulfed by the scent of lilies. The sight of the flowers didn't make any sense to him. The door looked as though it hadn't been opened for decades, but something told him that he was in the right place. Alan's shoes splashed in the mud as he pushed through the thick jungle of roses and lilies and of branches and bushes. Not even in the war had he been so determined. As the wilderness thinned Alan heard James' high clear voice. He quickened his pace in that direction. Batting a cluster of leaves away from his face he finally saw them.

"James!" he cried.

James looked over his shoulder briefly and met Alan's eyes. Panic and tears etched across his young face.

"Alan, help! I think she's dead!" James wailed.

Before Alan had time to process the situation he soared into action. He ran to James', lifted him to his feet and instructed him to call a doctor. James gazed at Mary. He longed to stay by her side, but he knew what he had to do. His heart was pounding in his ears as he ran at full speed to the house.

With an effortless swoop Alan lifted Mary's wilted body from the ground. Her head rolled back swaying from side to side as Alan carried her out of the secret garden. The journey was arduous and both Alan and Mary's faces were covered in nicks from the garden's thorns and branches. It was as though the branches were the hands of prison guards trying to keep their captives from escaping.

 _Bang!_ The heavy wooden gate fell off its hinges from the assault of Alan's shoe. Mary was still in his arms. The wind made an unnatural yowl and the long vines of ivy parted, revealing the path back to Downton. The path back to safety.

 **\- To be continued**


End file.
